


Half-Sick of Shadows

by paleandmoonstruck



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, alternate universe kind of?, dicking around with canon because i'm Unsatisfied, i'm not here to justify writing this story, just as a guilty pleasure sort of thing, please don't read this if you're not into OCs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-10-20 20:22:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17629046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paleandmoonstruck/pseuds/paleandmoonstruck
Summary: When Lucienne Frasier moves to Birmingham, the last thing she expects to find is Sergeant Major Thomas Shelby -- a man whose life she saved during the War. She soon finds herself tangled up in the world of the Peaky Blinders, and growing increasingly close with the Shelby clan. All she wants is to lift the Shelbys from their world of shadows, but she has her own secrets that need to come to light.





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Get updates on this story on my tumblr @paleandmoonstruck!

**AN: The version of 'Clair de Lune' Lucy sings here is by Merry Ellen Kirk! All rights go to her and her beautiful brain.**  

* * *

 

The gaslight reflected off the rain-slick streets, shimmering beneath Lucy’s boots. Long, glowing lines of gold seemed to lead her straight to Alice’s door; entirely too beautiful for what she had told her of Birmingham. The brass handle of her suitcase had grown warm from her clutching it, a steamer trunk filled with the non-essentials on its way from the train station. The man at the counter had assured her that it would arrive by the next afternoon, and directed her towards a line of cabs willing to take her to wherever she was staying.

She had walked the five kilometres to Alice’s happily, brushing away the voice that murmured that she wasn’t safe. She had learned to be invisible, and the dark blue of her coat and hat let the eyes of others skip over her. The city had taken her by surprise: Ottawa had been busy, but never this cramped and… industrial. Steam seemed to collect around the feet of the buildings, spewing from furnaces dotted around with no apparent rhyme or reason. Despite the hour, streams and masses of people filled the streets, clamouring together and shouting. The air stunk of factories, but as she drew nearer to where Alice lived, she found it had its own charm. She had always enjoyed being where it was lively, and the bright energy of Birmingham lacked the frantic fear of the medical tents that had tainted the bustle.

Before she knew it, the small door that read Alice’s address was before her face. The paint was peeling in the corner, something George would have fixed. She had barely lifted the knocker when the door swung open, the worn metal slipping from beneath her fingers. And behind the frame stood Alice.

She had changed in the months after the War’s end. Her hair was shorter, cut to her jaw in the current fashion. She looked smaller somehow. Carried herself differently. Lucy wondered how _she_ had changed.

“Lucienne!” Alice gasped, throwing her arms around her. She still smelled like lavender and soap, still buried her shorter head in the crook of Lucy’s neck. Her nose burned with tears.

Resisting the urge to babble away in French, Lucy pulled back, “let’s go in off the porch, _ma cocotte_ , before I start crying in the middle of the street.”

In a flurry of movement, Alice had taken her bag and ushered her into her little apartment. “It’s got two bedrooms,” Alice chirped, “we had planned on making the second a guest bedroom, but that can be yours now. Tiny though, I hope you don’t mind, love.” 

Her tone was forced, and Lucy offered her a sympathetic smile. “Never. I’m just glad you got my letters.” 

Lucy’s side had been itching all the way here. She wasn’t sure if it was the wound itself, or the fact that she knew it was there. She had scratched the skin raw during her nearly week-long trip across the Atlantic. Dropping her hat, she crossed the room to the fire. A long iron poker lay to the left, and she propped it up so the end was properly thrust into the coals. “Do you have any whiskey, Alice?”

“Where are my manners?” she said, dashing off to the small kitchen. “Would you like it watered down any?”

“No,” Lucy replied, shrugging off her coat and starting to work on the buttons of her blouse. “Straight, if you don’t mind.”

By the time Alice reappeared in the living room, Lucy stood naked from the waist up in front of the fire. Alice stopped dead in the doorway, eyeing her like she had lost her mind. Lucy remained unabashed. Alice was more like family than anyone who shared her blood, a sister in every way but biology. She drew nearer to where Lucy stood, eyes focused on the ugly raised skin on her right side. She handed off the whiskey, voice low, “did — did he…?”

“With a knife,” Lucy said, knocking back her whiskey. The rush of it flooded her from head to toe, glowing warmth settling in her chest. She put down the glass, grasping Alice’s hand in her own. “I need to ask a favour of you.”

“What?”

Pulling the poker from the fire, she eyed the metal. The edges glowed a bright orange, and she handed it off to Alice. “Burn it. Please, for the love of God. I can’t walk around with it any longer.”

“Lucy,” Alice said, swiping at tears that hadn’t fallen yet, "you can’t ask that of me.” 

“Please, Alice,” Lucy begged, raising her arm to show the full effect of the scar. Two jagged letters, FV, sat in the curve between her breast and ribs. “I feel like a cow.”

Alice nodded, grabbing the poker with two hands. “Arms up on the mantel. I don’t want to catch you somewhere else by accident.”

Bracing herself against the fireplace, Lucy sucked in a sharp breath as Alice dragged a chair over, propping her legs against it in case her knees gave out. The poker met her skin, blinding pain blooming across her ribs. Her death-grip on the oak mantel kept her from drawing away from the poker, but she wouldn’t have in the first place. The pain was cleansing. Rebirth lived on the razor’s edge of it, each wave of agony burning away the letters, the words, where his knife had dug into the flesh. She wished she could do this to her whole body. That the Lucienne who had loved him could go up in smoke as easily.

“It’s done,” Alice said, dashing away as if she had been the one burned, “I’ll get water to draw the heat out, and I think I have cooling gel here somewhere.”

Finally letting herself fall away from the fireplace, Lucy flopped onto the chair. As her head lolled back, she smiled at Alice. “Thank you." 

Alice paused in the threshold of the kitchen. The apartment, Lucy realized, was arranged strangely. Alice’s things littered the rooms, with strange gaps. Like she had left space for George to put his things, and the holes still had yet to be filled. Her belongings, she supposed, could slot in to the empty spaces. “No,” Alice said, “thank you. For coming when I needed you."

 

* * *

For a moment when she woke, Lucy forgot where she was.

She came to thrashing, just as she had for the past week and a half. But Alice’s familiar smell clung to the sheets of the guest bed, and all at once she came back to herself.

Her new burn made dressing difficult, but it didn’t hurt nearly as terribly as she thought it would. The skin was a jagged block of new and old flesh, the once raised scar now lowered compared to the surrounding skin. Alice had informed her of a nearby bar in need of staffing, and she refused to languish unhelpfully for longer than she had. The past few days had been spent with Alice dashing off to work at the hospital, while Lucy cleaned anything she could get her hands on. She had assembled her and Alice’s things into a tidy order, the gaps where George’s belongings had been easily forgotten.

The dress she wore today reminded her of her uniform during the war, the sky-blue of it matching her eyes rather wonderfully. _Little bluebird_ , a familiar voice hissed in her mind, _mon alouette_. She brushed harder against her palm. Despite herself, she couldn’t bear to cut her hair. It remained far past her shoulders — horribly old-fashioned. The curls helped a little, even if she spent a solid half hour a week brushing them out. The golden red of it didn’t suit the new style of bob anyhow, unlike Alice’s shiny black hair.

Staring into the mirror, she stopped seeing the woman she had been for the past seven months. The Lucy that had slogged her way to the medical tents and worked twelve-hour shifts on her feet reappeared. She almost expected to turn her head and find her face splattered in fresh blood.

She wondered if she would ever be the girl who had never seen war again, or if she was lost to 1913.

Twisting her hair back into the same bun she had worn for the four years of the War, she felt more and more like her old self again. By the time she had stepped out the door, her spine was straighter than it had been in months, and she met the eyes of each person she passed dauntlessly. And they stared. Both her dress and cloak-like coat were the same bright blue, admittedly standing out amongst the darker colours the people of Birmingham seemed to prefer. Otherwise, her old-fashioned sense of style and red hair made her stick out like a sore thumb.

When she swung open the door, the bar — _pub_ , she reminded herself — appeared empty. She called out into the silence, cringing as her voice echoed back to her, “hello? Anyone here?”

“We’re closed right now love,” a voice answered. The man it belonged to came around the corner. He was fairly tall, wearing a suit of a fine make with the jacket and tie cast off. He had an impressive moustache, laid against a somewhat old, weathered face. His ears were quite large, and she tried desperately not to stare at them.

“I was told there was a job opening? For someone to come sing.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What’s your name? Where are you from?”

“Lucienne Frasier,” she said, cursing her blend of an accent. “But most English folk call me Lucy. I’m from Ottawa, in Canada. My mother was French, and my father was Scottish, so I sound a tad strange. But I’ve moved to Birmingham.”

She was babbling, and she knew this, but it was proving rather difficult to stop. Out came the hand gestures, and the rushed voice, but words kept spilling out of her. “I’ve worked in bars before. Before the War, I mean. As a singer, and as a barmaid. During the War, I was nurse. Served on the Western Front. But that’s not relevant, is it?…”

Her question hung in the air as a second, utterly familiar man rounded the corner. Sergeant Major Thomas Shelby stood staring back at her, a look on his face like he had just seen a ghost. She supposed he had. She hadn’t even considered the fact that she might bump into him in Birmingham, despite the relatively small size of the city. God, how could she be so stupid?

 

* * *

 

 _Northern France, November 4th, 1916._

 

* * *

 

_“Seven more wounded!” Someone called. Men dragged in the dead and dying on stretchers. A beat. Lucy was too slow, five other nurses had already flocked to the dead bodies. They were the easiest, only needing someone to properly pronounce them dead before moving on. She settled for a man with blood staining his torso, who lay still as a corpse. Dragging him over to her workspace, she began to cut away his torn and dirty uniform. Beneath, she saw that he was littered with stab wounds._

_“Leave him,” Nurse Bernadette said, “he’s almost dead anyway. It’s not worth the effort.”_

_Maybe it was the fact that Bernadette was a raging bitch, and every nurse, medic, and doctor this side of the Marne knew it. Maybe it was the faint fluttering of the soldier’s eyelashes as she spoke. Maybe it was the fact that he was beautiful. Either way, a surge of anger and protectiveness rose in Lucy’s chest, and she snapped back, “mind your own damn patient. He’s mine to take care of, and I’ll do as I please.”_  

_Bernadette, ever the arsepiece, turned to Doctor Thompson. “Tell her to leave him be, she’s wasting time and resources.”_

_Doctor Thompson scanned the man, and saw Lucy’s face. “Her patient, her decision. We don’t have time for this, Bernadette. Mind your own.”_

_“Thank you, Doctor,” Lucy said, eyeing Bernadette murderously. She got to work, splashing her hands in Dakin solution and tossing on a pair of gloves. Anesthetic was administered quickly, and with expert technique. Thank God, his organs weren’t damaged. The stab wounds were numerous, but shallow. From the size and shape, it looked as though they had been made by an idiot who didn’t know how to use a bayonet. The work was painstaking, each stitch made with the utmost precision. Other nurses whirled around her in constant movement, stretchers flying across the medical tent as men were either healed enough to be taken to Recovery, or died on the table._

_“Lucy,” a voice called. It was Nurse Russell, she realized. “Your shift is up, someone else can take over for you.”_

_“No,” Lucy murmured, shifting the man’s skin so the layers lined up with one another. She was hoping to reduce scarring, if possible._

_She lost herself in the work, slaving over the dozens of minuscule stitches needed to piece him back together. By the time she was done, the clock informed her that it was an hour and half past the end of her twelve-hour shift._

_“I’ll take him to Recovery,” she said, her tiredness crashing down on her now that she was aware of the time. She tugged him onto a rolling stretcher, and carted him off to the Recovery tent. She put him in one of the nicer ones, with ‘rooms’ sectioned off with hanging canvas. It was thick enough to block out some of the noise, and provided about as much privacy as one could expect._

_Before she left to go sleep, she cast a backwards glance at him. His chest rose and fell slowly, but steadily. He was out of the woods. A strange feeling of relief passed over her. An odd affection for a man she had never so much as spoken to blooming in her chest._

_She needed to sleep._

 

* * *

 

_Northern France, November 6th, 1916._

 

* * *

 

_“How’s Caesar?” Alice asked, poking her head into the room._

_Lucy still wasn’t quite sure how she had swung it with Nurse Russell to let her momentarily switch from Incoming tents to Recovery. Well, she was somewhat sure. Not one full sleep after she had carefully stitched him back together, nearly every nurse in Recovery and otherwise had started fighting over who would get to watch over him. It wasn’t because he was good looking, though that certainly helped. He was a mystery. He still hadn’t woken, and there was absolutely no form of identification on him. It tickled the fancy of the girls who had signed on to be nurses out of a botched romanticism, and at least stirred the curiosity of the others. Lucy insisted that she should be the one to care for him, given that she had treated him, and therefore knew his wounds best. Nurse Russell had no doubt seen an easy out there, and deemed it the perfect solution._

_“Still sleeping,” Lucy answered, absentmindedly feeling the cloth on his forehead. He had started running a bit hot within the first day of her taking him into her care. It seemed to stem from whatever he was dreaming of, however, as she had checked thoroughly for any signs of infection and found nothing. He was healing remarkably well. “You’ll be the first to know if he rises from his slumber.”_

_Grinning, Alice tossed her a canteen of fresh water. “I had better be. Don’t forget to grab some food, lunch’s in an hour.”_

_Lucy took a grateful sip, nodding as she made to soak Caesar’s cloth in bowl of cold water at his bedside. Settling down with her book of Tennyson, she made a mental note to change his bandages in a half hour._

_She could pass hours like this, entertaining herself with small menial tasks and the minutiae of tending to him. She supposed she could have gone and checked on the others, but it wasn’t as though Recovery was short-staffed. She took up darning a pair of socks Alice had handed off to her, insisting that if Lucy was going to sit around Caesar’s beside all day, she might as well make herself useful. Without doing much in the way of thinking, she began to hum, which grew into full-out soft singing. It was a Scottish song her grandmother had sung to her as a child, some ballad that doubled as a lullaby. She kept going as she went to change Caesar’s bandages, turning to the side to grab her medical bag._

_A rough voice echoed through the room, nearly scaring her out of her skin, “are you an angel?”_  

_Any song died in her throat, and she turned back to see Caesar staring at her, bleary-eyed. “Not an angel,” she managed, ignoring the little thrill in her chest as she took in the bright blue of his eyes. “Just a nurse.”_

_“Ah,” he said, nodding a little. “Figured an angel wouldn’t be singing a Jacobite song, but thought I’d check.”_

_He had a thick accent, that while being unmistakably English, was unlike any of the other accents she had come across just yet. She gently tapped his bandages, “I need to change these, do you mind?” When he waved his consent, she began to peel back the thick cotton, examining his wounds as she spoke, “everyone will be so pleased to hear you’ve woken. What’s your name, by the way? You lost your identification, so we’ve been calling you Caesar I’m afraid.”_

_His eyes drifted open a little wider, surprise and amusement swirling in them in equal measure. “Caesar?”_

_“That’s my fault,” she admitted, cheeks heating. “I started it. We’re supposed to call unidentified men John Doe, but I thought Caesar was a little more apt, what with all the stab wounds.” She gestured to his torso, which was littered with stitches._

_He peered over his chest, craning his neck to see his stomach. “Ah. I nearly forgot.”_

_“Forgot being almost stabbed to death?”_

_“You’d be surprised what a man can forget when he doesn’t want to dwell on something.”_

_“Well,” she drawled, “you’re healing wonderfully. You’re welcome, by the way. I had to fight to be allowed to stitch you up.”_

_“Bit of a lost cause, was I?”_

_“In the opinion of some,” she sniffed, slathering a poultice over the stitches to keep them from getting stiff._

_A smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But not in yours?”_

_She turned to made eye contact with him, growing serious. “No one is beyond saving until their heart stops beating. Anyone who says otherwise is just lazy.”_

_“In that case, you have my eternal thanks,” he joked. “My name’s Thomas. Thomas Shelby.”_

_Tugging his chart out from beneath her pile of recreational activities, she wrote his name in clear print. “Age, rank, and affiliation?”_

_“Twenty-six, Sergeant Major, Small Heath Rifles, British Royal Forces. And you? Do you have a name?”_

_“Lucienne Frasier,” she murmured, offering him a drink of water, “but you can call me Lucy, if you’d like. Twenty-three, Nursing Sister, Canadian Army Medical Corps.”_

_“Ah, you’re one of the bluebirds,” he said, accepting a swig from her canteen. Shifting in his bed, he cocked an eyebrow at her. “Tell me, do all Canadians have an accent like yours?”_

_“No, I’m special I’m afraid,” she quipped. “I’m from Ottawa, so I suppose I have a bit of the Valley accent. But my father’s Scottish, and my mother’s Quebec French from across the river in Gatineau. Blend all that together, and you get my voice.”_  
  
_“Well, it’s lovely,” he said, tone ringing with a sincerity that made her toes curl in her boots._

_“And where are you from? I’ve never heard an English accent like yours.”_

_“Small Heath, in Birmingham.” His tone was fond, and her breath caught in her chest as the smallest of smiles bloomed across his mouth. “The Brummie accent’s quite a bit different from anything else, you’ll find.”_

_“I see,” she teased, “so you’re special too.”_

_“Quite,” he said, schooling his face into the model of seriousness. “Unbelievably special. You’ve no idea.”_

_Silence hung in the air for a few moments before he cracked a grin, and she exploded into quiet laughter, shoulders shaking with the force of it. He joined her, though he winced in pain. “Careful,” she giggled, “you’ll rip your stitches. And they were an absolute bitch to put in, so they’d better stay put.”_

_“Aye aye, Nurse Frasier,” he said, eyes drifting around the room. They landed on her book, and his face lit up, “is that Tennyson?”_

_“Yes, do you care for him?”_

_“My mother used to read poetry to us before bed,” he murmured. “One of her favourites was The Lady of Shallot.”_

_“That’s right after the one I’m on, at current. Would you like me to read aloud?”_

_“God, please,” he groaned. “It’s been so long since I’ve done anything but play cards and drink. Bless my compatriots, but war’s not a particularly intellectual pursuit.”_

_Settling back into her chair, she opened to the page she had last read. “I’ll start back at the beginning, it’s not particularly long. It’s_ Oriana _.”_

_He nodded, settling back into his pillows with a small noise of contentment. A warmth filled her chest and entered her voice as she read, but she ignored it. “My heart is wasted with my woe, Oriana. There is no rest for me below, Oriana…”_

 

* * *

 

_Northern France, November 20th, 1916._

 

* * *

_As she tugged her book of Tennyson out of Tommy’s hands, she couldn’t help but think that his pout was adorable. “Let’s go, physical therapy.”_

_“I was halfway through_ Lady Clare _,” he complained, shifting his blankets off his legs anyway. “I’m thoroughly enjoying your notes in the margins.”_

_She tucked the book into his pack, snug between a thermos and a rather large matchbook. “You can keep it until you finish, now let’s go.” She tugged Tommy up and out of bed, his legs giving way beneath him as they hit the floor. In the span of a few seconds she had nearly the full one-hundred-and-thirty pounds of him draped over her. She wasn’t shorter by much, but her own knees halfway buckled, a small noise of surprise escaping her throat. For the briefest of moments her brain refused to work. All she could register was the heat from his chest against her palms, and the smell of him in her nose._

_Snapping out of it, she timed her breaths to still the racing of her heart, pulling away. “Careful, it’s my night off. If you break a bone, you’ll be fucked ’til the morning.”_

_“If it’s your night off, where are we going?”_

_“Out of this tent,” she said, steadying him on his feet. “You can walk now, and I’m willing to be you’re bored out of your right mind. So come with me.”_

_Laughing under his breath, he let her help him into a coat and shoes and lead him out of the maze of army canvas. “I’m not complaining, but aren’t there rules about this sort of thing?”_

_“The only person who could get me in trouble is Nurse Russell, and she adores me.” Turning to face him, she flashed a bright grin. “Besides, I won’t tell if you don’t.”_

_They tumbled out into the night air hand-in-hand, giggling to themselves. A group of nurses and medics were clumped together, bottles of liquor from home clutched in their hands. “Lucy!” Alice called, waving her over._

_“Alice,” she greeted amiably, “meet Sergeant Major Thomas Shelby, formerly known to all as ‘Caesar’.”_

_Laughing, Alice offered her a fresh bottle of champagne. She grinned at Tommy, “right clever, isn’t our Lucy?”_

_“The cleverest,” he said solemnly, his hand migrating from hers to the small of her back. She tried to pretend that the sudden warmth in her stomach was from the champagne as she tilted her head back, cheeks heating. She handed him the bottle, admiring the line of his jaw as he took a swig._

_“Lucy!” a voice called, Doctor Harding waving at her, “guess what we’ve got!”_

_“What?” she called back, offering him a wave in return._  
  
_“Brigadier General Alexander gave us his record player for tonight, bless him!”_

_“No!,” she said, drawing nearer to see the player and a stack of records propped on a table someone had carted outside. “How on earth?”_

_“I have my ways,” Alice said, batting her eyelashes playfully._

_Snorting, Lucy took another drink of champagne, “does he know you’re engaged?"_  

 _Alice shrugged, “he knows what he needs to.”_  

_“Sing for us, will you?” Doctor Harding asked. “You’ve such a lovely voice.”  
_

_“Doesn’t she?” Tommy said, tugging her a little closer. “First thing I heard when I woke up. Thought she was a bloody angel.”_

_“Reminds me of my wife,” Doctor Harding said carefully, as though he was defusing a bomb. “I hope our daughter inherits that, I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”_

_Something about Tommy softened, and Doctor Harding seemed to settle as well. God, she would never understand men. Loosening herself from Tommy’s grip, she approached the pile of records, deciding on Clair de Lune. Her grandmother used to sing a version with words to her as a lullaby, and she was in the mood for something sad and comforting. The soft crackle of the player was achingly familiar, and she was forced to remember how long it had been since she used one._

_The song was soft, and she revelled in the feeling of everyone’s eyes on her as she sang. Most of all, she shivered beneath Tommy’s gaze. He looked at her as though she actually was an angel. Some primeval creature descended from the heavens. She wound up staring at him as the final chords of the song played. It was him who began to clap first, a rare, bright grin spreading over his face. Something a little like relief flooded her chest, and she grinned back._

_For the rest of the night, they were glued together at the hip. Settling beneath a tree with their champagne, she found herself growing bolder. “You have a girl back home?”_

_A cloud passed over his face, and he took another pull from the bottle, lighting up a cigarette. “Used to, before the War. Her name was Greta. She died of consumption before I enlisted.”_

_Clutching at her chest, a dozen feelings filtered through Lucy before she spoke. Regret. Empathy. Relief. Self-loathing. “My mother died of consumption when I was ten. I’m so sorry, Tommy.”_

_“She did?”_

_Lucy nodded, fisting her hands in her skirt. “We sent her to a sanitarium early on, so none of the rest of us caught it. Broke my father’s heart. He’s never stopped regretting not being able to be with her at her deathbed. Suppose I haven’t either.”_

_“What about you then,” he said, taking another drag as he changed the subject, “you have a boy waiting for you somewhere?”_

_“Good question.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_Biting her lip, she dropped his gaze. “I was seeing someone before the War. We’ve known each other since the cradle, and I suppose we’ve loved each other just as long. He enlisted before I finished my nursing course. We’ve never… put a name to anything. He told me before he left that he thought it was for the best if we put whatever we had on hold until after the War. After all, God knows if one of us is going to die before everything’s over.” Her voice turned to ash in her mouth, and she tried not to mumble. “ Alice thinks he just wanted to be able to fuck someone overseas and not feel bad about it. But then again, her and George heard about the War and were engaged in a week. She’s an odd duck.”_

_Silence hung between them for a moment, and she felt the rough pad of his finger under her chin, forcing her to look at him. His face was earnest as he spoke, “he’s a fucking idiot.”_

_Her breath was shaky, and she found herself speaking before she thought, “honestly, I don’t know if I even really love him.”_

_“Why?” Tommy asked, voice rough._

He doesn’t make me feel like you do. _“I’ve never tried to love anyone else. We just grew up and decided we were in love and that was that. I was his, and he was mine. What if we made a mistake?”_

_“I think you should expand your horizons while you have the chance,” he murmured, tracing her cheekbone with his thumb. She melted into his touch, jolting upwards as a round of applause split the night air._

_Whoever was performing had just finished. Now someone was strumming a guitar, the beginning to a sailor’s song everyone knew the words to. “C’mon,” she said, struggling to her feet. “I’ll teach you to dance the reel.”_

_The next few minutes consisted of her attempting to teach a very drunk Tommy a dance she knew from childhood, all while being equally ossified._

_“No,” she giggled, showing him how to move his foot, “like that!”_  

_“Okay,” he said very seriously, “like this?”_

_They made it about halfway through, until the section where they were supposed to circle one another, palms about an inch apart with the other hand tucked behind your back. Instead, he laced their fingers together, curling his free arm around her waist. Everything stopped, the earth grinding to a halt on its axis. Everything but his face lost colour and was shrouded in darkness, all sounds but their loose pants falling into quiet. Every inch of her was on alert, all too aware of every single place where their bodies met._

_“Could I kiss you?” he murmured, eyes sweeping over her face._  

_“God, please,” she begged._

_He did, mouth ghosting over hers in a soft kiss that sent shivers down her spine and curled her toes in her boots. It was unbelievably short and chaste. Hardly enough. She pressed herself closer to him, stretching onto her tiptoes to kiss him again. His hand left hers, burying itself in her hair._

_Tipping slightly off-balance, she flung her arms around his neck as she tumbled into his chest. He groaned into her mouth, arm tightening around her waist as the kiss deepened. She felt like she was on fire and drowning all at once, skin far too sensitive and breath coming in a rush between kisses. God, how long had she wanted to do this?_

_As he pulled back, she pressed a kiss to his jaw, “I knew there was a reason I saved your sorry ass.”_

_“Am I ever glad you did,” he said, his hand rubbing soothing circles into her hip._

_“I should bring you back, curfew’s soon.”_

_“Would you stay?”_

_She almost said yes. Between his hand in her hair and the taste of his cigarette still lingering in her mouth, she couldn’t imagine prying herself away from him. She swallowed a lump in her throat. ”You know I can’t.”_

_“I know,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose. Her heart melted in her chest. “But God, I want you to.”_

_Tugging herself from his grip, she intertwined their fingers. “Let’s go, I’ll see you to bed.”_

_When she finally did help into his cot, he stole another kiss from her as she leaned over to fix his blanket. “Thank you for tonight. I did need it.”_

_She smiled, running her fingers through his hair, “don’t I know everything?”_

_“If I say you do, will you kiss me again?”_

_“Bribes are unnecessary, I assure you,_ mon coeur _,” she said, pressing a quick peck to his mouth. “Now go to bed, you can hassle me in the morning.”_

_“Could you stay until I fall asleep?”_

_Sighing, she stuffed his blankets to the side to lie on top of them. He eagerly made way for her, wrapping an arm around her side. “Just until then, and then I have to go.”_

_He hummed his consent, burying his nose in her hair. She had to admit that they fit together well, his ribs slotting into the negative space left by the curve of her spine, arm slung perfectly across her waist. For the briefest of moments she though of Félix, and her heart withered in her chest. How could she lie with someone else, knowing he was out there somewhere?_

_No. She was being an idiot. He was the one who had called off whatever they had. And like Alice said, she had no assurances that he wasn’t off seeing other women as soon as he got a bit of leave. And god, she had never felt anything like this before. The soft rush of Tommy’s breaths ghosting over her ear filled her with a strange kind of inner peace. All she wanted was to lie like this until the end of time; to fossilize and stay frozen with his weight against hers._

_He had fallen asleep, she realized. With great chagrin, she gently extricated herself from his grip. Pressing a kiss to his forehead, she left him sleeping happily for the night._

_As soon as she entered her own room, she felt any energy she had leave her. She barely had the strength to peel off her boots before she fell into bed, the smell of him still stuck in her nose._  

_God, she was fucked._

 

* * *

 

_Northern France, November 21st, 1916._

 

* * *

_She burst into Tommy’s room, a ball of panic. She had woken up late, and incredibly hungover. But she had still come to with a smile on her face._

_To her surprise, the room was empty. Absolutely barren. Someone had stripped the bed and remade it, all of Tommy’s personal effects having disappeared. Poking her head out of the room, she called to a gaggle of nurses a few feet away, “where’s Sergeant Major Shelby?”_

_“Oh,” Nurse Jameson said, “we thought you knew, and that’s why you didn’t show up this morning. He’s gone.”_

_“What do you mean, ‘gone’?” she snapped, a ball of lead settling in her stomach._

_“He was called back to the front,” Nurse Jameson said quietly. “They came for him early, barely gave him enough time to gather his things. Apparently they have a big project planned for the Clay-Kickers.”_

_She was hyperventilating, she noticed dimly. Her hands came to her chest, clutching at her heart. He couldn’t be gone. Just… gone. She felt like the wind had stolen her five-dollar note, and she was staring after it helplessly, grasping at the empty air where it had been._  

 _Retreating back into his —_ the _room, she collapsed onto the bed. She hadn’t realized just how much it had smelled of him in here, now that his familiar scent was replaced with antiseptic and bleach. What had she really expected? That he would stay here forever? That she would get to wake up every morning and get to discuss books and poetry with him, teach him silly songs, exchange stories from before the War? She didn’t know. All she knew was that it felt as though someone had carved up her heart and taken a piece with them, and now she was supposed to live on without it._

 

* * *

“Well,” the moustached man said, “if you’re gonna’ apply to be a singer, might as well sing us something.” He gestured to a record player in the corner. 

In the stack of records lay a copy of Debussy’s greatest works, and a strange boldness filled her. Her hands trembled as she lowered the needle onto the record, the grainy sound of Clair de Lune echoing through the pub.

Turning to face the brothers, she took her hat off, fully revealing her face. She began to sing, her shaky voice joining the swell of the piano:

 

_You there, pearly white._

_Can you see those stars, in my eyes?_

_A nice reflection it may be, so it seems, to me._

_A kiss from Heaven lightly breathed,_

_Nightly unsheathed._

 

As she settled into the familiar rhythm of it, her voice grew louder. She began to move about the floor of the Garrison, tracing the shining wood of the tables as though it was full of patrons to be entertained.

 

_You there, pearly white._

_Can you hear those, stars tonight?_

_How I wonder what they might say to you._

_O, how they wander but hardly they ever move._

_What do they whisper while hardly they ever move?_

 

The piano picked up in pace, and Lucy turned to face the brothers again, catching their gazes as she pushed forward. Tommy was staring at her like she had grown wings and flew, and she couldn’t help maintaining eye contact. Something about the look on his face made her feel powerful. Unearthly.

 

_What do they tell you?  
Tell me what they tell you._

_What do they show you?  
Show me what they show you._

_And if I know you,_

_Like they likely know you,_

_Could I die?_

_Oh my dear._

 

And then she was no longer in 1919, in Birmingham. She was back on the Western Front, with blood still under her fingernails and Thomas Shelby’s eyes on her as she sang to a scratchy record on Brigadier General Alexander’s record player.

 

_Love._

_A lasting love,_

_Like a dove that flies_

_Right over the years._

_Truth._

_Precious truth._

 

She drew closer, making direct eye contact with Tommy as she sang the next few lines. A shiver ran down her spine and crept into her voice, curling into a gentle vibrato.

 

_As in youth, I’d like to fly_

_Up above._

_Lasting love._

_Lasting love, enough to rise up_

_Through the evening sky tonight._

_How you wander right over the evening sky_

_Like a dove._

_Lasting love._

_Everlasting love, like I never knew._

_Quite, like you do._

_Precious truth._

 

For the briefest of moments she directed her attention back to Arthur, who looked positively enraptured. But it was the heat and the memory in Tommy’s eyes that drew her back to him, moving a little further away as she sat on one of the tables, crossing her legs and leaning backwards as though she were draping herself over a piano. The rolling chords of the song slowed to a gentle plucking, framing the breathiness of her voice perfectly.

 

_As in,_

_You there._

_Pearly white._

_Can you feel those stars tonight?_

_How I wonder if they are kind,_

_Are they kind to you?_

_How I wonder if maybe they sing this song for you?_

 

There was the shortest of musical interludes, and in that time Lucy drew her finger across the shining wood of the table, lowering her eyes from Tommy’s. When she looked back up he had taken a step toward her. His chest moved up and down too quickly, breathless. And thank God, because she was too.

 

_You there, pearly white._

_Can you sing a song tonight?_

_Just for me,_

_Just for me dear._

_Of a lasting…_

_Ever…_

 

More music. Lucy slipped off the table, coming into Tommy’s space. He was quite tall. How hadn’t she remembered that? She was of a fairly average height, nowhere near Alice’s pixie-esque stature. But he dwarfed her. She had to crane her neck to meet his eyes.

 

_Everlasting,_

_True love._

 

The piano drew to a beautiful close, and with a scratch and a jostle the record switched to a different Debussy. Chest heaving, she was still staring at Tommy, who stood in front of her like a marble statue. Arthur’s loud, bellowing voice echoed through the Garrison, “bloody beautiful! I’d say you have a job, Miss Frasier.”

All at once, the spell was broken. Shaking herself from her trance, she flashed the elder Shelby brother a bright grin, “thank you very much, Mr. Shelby. When should I start?”

“Tomorrow, if you can,” he said, taking her wrist and pulling her towards the bar. Removing a glass, he gestured to the wall of liquor with a questioning glance.

“Scotch, if you please. Straight.”

Chuckling, he pulled the whiskey from the first shelf, pouring her a glass. She took it gratefully, shooting half of it in one go. Her heart was still thumping a mile a minute in her chest, and she needed to still her shaking hands before someone noticed. “Now,” Arthur began, “our establishment is rather casual, so you’ll double as a barmaid. A couple of the boys can be a little handsy, but they’re a good bunch.”

“I’ve worked in bars before, Mr. Shelby. If one of them tries to get me against the wall I’ll give them a swift kick in the _couilles_ , no need to worry. Now what would my duties be?”

As Arthur went over exactly what her job would entail, Tommy didn’t move from where she had left him. Twenty minutes later, she was back out on the street with a job and some future prospects. She couldn’t contain her giddiness, permitting a small grin. But she found herself waiting at the corner of the building. She wondered if Tommy would follow her out. Explain. Discuss. Praying no one would mistake her for a whore, she leaned against the brick wall, drawing her hat low.

A few beats. The sound of a door.

Tommy Shelby appeared at the corner, a cigarette already drawn between his fingers. “It is you.”

Raising the brim of her cap, she nodded, “it’s me.”

“Why’ve you come to Birmingham?” he asked, lighting the cigarette with an efficient strike of his match and a puff. 

“You remember Alice,” she murmured, “she lives here now. This is where her fiancé was from. He died at Verdun, and she didn’t know where else to go. She’s been lonely, so she sent for me.”

“And your boy, did he ever come home?”

“He did.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow, offering her his cigarette, “he came to England with you?”

She waved it off, resisting the urge to cross her arms. “No.”

He leveraged a curious look at her, “why not?’

“We’re not together,” she explained, praying he’d leave it at that.

“Decided not to rekindle the romance when you both returned home?”

“No.”

Thank God, he _did_ leave it at that. Nodding to her, he took another drag of his cigarette, “I’ll be seeing you tomorrow then.”

This surprised her. “You will?”

“My family’s company owns the pub,” he said. “You’d be surprised how often I’m here.”

“Well,” she said, flashing him a grin, “it’ll be lovely to see you. We should catch up.”

His eyes were as intense as ever, burrowing into her soul. God, he was beautiful.

Something about his voice was rough, “I didn’t mean to leave so suddenly. I had to go." 

“God,” she said, trying to instill a false cheeriness in her words, “I hope you haven’t been worrying about it. I was a little shocked, but I lived.”

“Good,” he said, pulling his cap further over his face. “Have a good day, Miss Frasier.”

“Same to you,” she murmured, cursing herself for creating a distance between them. All she wanted was to see his face properly.

Instead, she peeled herself off the brick wall and kept walking, headed back in the direction of Alice’s apartment. She had done the right thing, she reassured herself. How could she be close with Tommy so soon after everything that had happened with Félix? And it had been years since she last saw him. For all she knew, he was happily married. It was incredibly bold of her to assume that he’d even feel the same way after all this time, or even to ascribe the same depth to his feelings as hers in the first place.

Feeling reassured, she slipped her copy of her employment contract from her coat. 

Tomorrow she would begin her job with Shelby Company Limited.

 


	2. Trouble-Magnet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been a hot minute. My mental health basically took a nosedive over the past few months, and it's been really difficult to write while trying to pull my life together. But I'm getting there! And I've decided making time in my day to write (I currently have three WIPs, including this) is good for my brain, so I will be working on that. 
> 
> Please check out my tumblr @paleandmoonstruck to yell at me if it's been a while since I've updated. Also! You can send me fun prompts, and I'll write a little drabble in-universe of this story! I plan on working out a system to keep y'all up-to-date on the status of new chapters (including snippets!), so go head over there.
> 
> I hope everyone can forgive me for the hiatus on this story. I'm genuinely so excited to get this out of my brain and onto the page, so it brings me so much joy to finally start updating it again. See you soon! <3

“I just think that maybe working in the Peaky Blinders’ pub is a bit too much for you,” Alice fretted, wringing her hands as Lucy slipped into her shoes. 

Rolling her eyes, Lucy turned to face her. “And what do you mean by that?”

“You’re a bloody trouble magnet!” Alice said, “I swear you can’t walk two feet down the road without bumping into something you shouldn’t.”

“I’m a big girl,” Lucy said, tugging on her hat. “I can take care of myself around these kinds of people. You know that. And need I remind you who suggested I apply there?”

“You know full well I meant Kelly’s,” Alice hissed. This was true. What Lucy wouldn’t give for someone to have snapped a photograph at the exact moment when she informed Alice that she had been employed at the Garrison. Her face had lost all colour, jaw practically hitting the floor. “How was I supposed to know that the Blinders were looking for staff as well?”

“What’s done is done. I’ll be fine, provided I’m not late like I will be if we continue this conversation. Then they might cut my fingers off.” 

Alice lifted her hand to her forehead, sighing rather dramatically as she went to flop down in the armchair. “You’ll be the death of me, Lucy Frasier, you will.”

“See you tonight,” Lucy trilled, stepping out onto the street. The walk was long enough to be pleasant, but short enough not to feel like a trip. She wore her same blue coat, but earned fewer stares. Something warm settled in her chest; a nice familiarity. It made her strides more purposeful, lifted her chin.

The Garrison was empty when she entered, despite the door being open. She locked it behind her according to Arthur’s instructions. Making for the back room, she shrugged off her coat. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard a sharp “ _shh!_ ”

“Hello?” Lucy whispered, whipping her head around the back room. A flicker of movement in the corner of her eye. A small girl crawled out from beneath the desk, face and hands streaked with dust and dirt.

Unsure how to respond, Lucy stared down at the girl. She looked to be around ten, and was staring up at Lucy with an equal amount of bafflement. She, however, was not at a loss for words, “Miss Charity?”

Blinking, Lucy snapped out of it. “No, my name is Lucy Frasier. Is that who’s watching you?”

“I wish,” the little girl said. “I’ll I’ve got is Katie, who’s a right pain. That’s fine, though. I’m playing hide-and-seek with her, and she’ll never find me.”

“Right,” Lucy said slowly, “and who might you be?”

Sticking her hand out like a prim and proper young lady, she ducked her head in greeting. “Georgina Shelby, Miss Frasier. Pleasure to meet your acquaintance.” 

She mispronounced ‘acquaintance’, and Lucy felt a small bubble of affection rise in her chest. Shaking her hand, she offered Georgina a bright grin. “And I yours, Miss Shelby.”

_Then_ she realized exactly what the girl had said. “Shelby? Like the Shelbys who own this pub?” 

“Yep. It’s my Uncle Arthur’s pub, but everyone knows that Uncle Tommy is the one who really owns everything,” she said matter-of-factly. A shadow passed over her face, and she narrowed her little eyes, “if everyone knows, then why don’t you?" 

Despite herself, Lucy couldn’t help the relief blooming in her gut at the words ‘Uncle Tommy’. “I’m not from Birmingham,” she said. “I’ve just arrived to live with a friend. I’m working here as a barmaid and a singer.”

Georgina nodded, understanding glowing in her eyes. “So you’re here to replace Miss Burgess?”

“I suppose so,” Lucy said, utterly confused but not unhappy. Setting her hat on the coat rack, she offered Georgina a hand, “why don’t we get you cleaned up, and you can help me set up in here if you want to hide from Katie?”

 

* * *

 

 Tommy Shelby had never felt uncomfortable entering the Garrison before.

_This is ridiculous_ , he thought, standing outside the door of his own bloody pub like an idiot. He reached into his jacket pocket, thumb tracing the worn gilded letters of the book that lay there. He was loath to part with it, but it had never been his. 

Pulling off his cap as he walked through the front door, he sped up as he took in the sight of Georgina talking Lucy’s ear off. He had no idea how she had snuck in here; Esme was going to have a heart attack.

“What are you doing here, Georgie?” he said by way of greeting. 

Spinning around in her seat, Georgina’s face lit up, “Uncle Tom!”

He allowed her to fling herself at him, meeting Lucy’s gaze over her head. A soft grin was tugging at the corner of her mouth, her eyes warm.

He had the random urge to crack a joke, just to broaden her smile, and force her dimple to appear. 

Instead, he pulled away from Georgina, leaning against the polished wood of the bar. “I see you’ve met our Georgie. I hope she hasn’t been too much trouble.” 

“She’s a delight,” Lucy said, voice utterly sincere. God, did he love her accent.

Georgina peeked up from where she had burrowed into his chest, “isn’t she wonderful? And so beautiful? I thought she was Miss Charity at first!”

He regarded her suspiciously. Georgina never acted so stereotypically childlike unless she had an ulterior motive. “Very wonderful, Georgie. Now where’s Arthur? Tell him I’ll watch the pub for a bit so he can bring you home.”

The soft puppy-dog look in Georgina’s eyes died immediately. “I don’t _want_ to go home.”

He sighed, bracing himself for a negotiation session. A true Shelby, Georgina never did something for nothing.

“Say,” Lucy said, just a little too pointedly to be off-hand, “you remember that princess you were telling me about? With the flowers in her braid?”

Flipping to face Lucy, Georgina narrowed her eyes at her. “Princess Lyra?”

Shrugging, Lucy leaned over the bar to get closer to the eight-year-old. “If you go home with your uncle, I’ll drop by on my next day off and teach you how to braid your hair the same way.” 

For a moment, Georgina looked as though she was considering getting that in writing. Instead, she held out a small hand for Lucy to shake, “sounds like a deal.”

There was the grin. As Lucy curled her fingers around Georgina’s, her lips curved into a dazzling crooked smile, revealing the dimple in the hollow of her left cheek. For the briefest of moments, Tommy’s breath caught in his chest.

_You’re an idiot_ , he thought, tapping Georgina on the shoulders. “Alright, deal struck. Go get Arthur.”

As soon as Georgina scampered off towards the back room, Lucy arched an eyebrow at him, “who is Miss Charity?” 

“One of those newspaper cartoons,” he said. “She’s a debutante, supposed to teach young girls lessons in etiquette. Georgie’s obsessed with her. She wants to be the next queen.”

Her smile grew mischievous, “I _am_ exceedingly well-mannered.”

He couldn’t help shooting her a disbelieving look, “from what I remember of you, you’re far from a lady.”

For the briefest of moments, the air in the room seemed to still. He cursed himself. The memory of her flashed across his mind: their fingers interlaced, the soft curve of her waist, the faint taste of champagne that had clung to her mouth.

Her eyes narrowed, then she rearranged her posture. Spine straightening as though she wore a corset, her limbs gained a fluid, airy quality. She composed her face into a perfect mask of neutrality, settling on one of the bar stools with all the grace of a duchess. “My grandmother was very big on etiquette,” she murmured, offering him the small smile permitted to proper ladies. He preferred her grin.

He grabbed a cigarette, striking a match as he lifted it to his lips. This was interesting information, it could be of use. “Full of surprises, I see,” he said, turning his attention to the burning in his lungs.

She dropped the charade, propping her head up on her fist. “I’ve got plenty of hidden talents.”

Was she really looking at him like that, or was he imagining it? Either way, he needed to change the subject before he did something inadvisable. He reached into his pocket, pulling out her book of Tennyson and laying it on the bar.

He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. She paused, lifting up her head and flicking her gaze back and forth between the book and his face. Her hands shook as she reached for it, picking it up off the bar like it was something holy. He watched her fingers trace the letters of the title, and when she looked back up at him he could’ve sworn there were tears in her eyes. “You kept it?”

“It brought me comfort,” he said, coming to stand rather abruptly. Picking up a glass and a bottle of gin, he gestured towards the snug. “I’ll be in there, if you need me. Pleasure to see you again.”

So he left, cigarette still trailing smoke in his hand. She would have asked for explanations he didn’t have. This was for the best.

 

* * *

 

 “You motherfucker!” 

Lucy’s head snapped up, already coming around the corner of the bar to break up whatever was about to happen. Two men stood in the half of the room closest to the door, barely two fists apart. 

One was slightly taller, with slicked-back blond hair and a wicked scar across his cheek. His bone structure was both fine and sharp, like someone had decided to fashion a knife into a man. He was exactly the kind of person she’d cross the street to avoid. 

The other was no more comforting. His dark hair was cut short on the sides in the modern fashion, a peaked flat-cap clutched in one hand. He was a Blinder, and he was currently punching the blond man in the face.

She winced. The Blinder looked strong, built broad and muscular. By the time she made it three paces they were exchanging blows, and the door to the snug was billowing open.

Something about the idea of Tommy watching made her a little braver. She stomped across the shining floors of the pub — floors she had _just_ scrubbed this morning — and wedged herself between the men, planting a hand on each of their chests. “Hey — Hey! Stop it!”

The men came to a pause, panting heavily. The blond glared down at her. “I’d move, if you don’t want that face of yours to get a lot less pretty.”

“Shut the fuck up and save it for someone who cares,” she spat. Something warm and wet splashed against her neck, and she realized the Blinder behind her was bleeding. Turning to examine his face, she found bright green eyes trained on her. He was somewhere between fury and curiosity, and she couldn’t help but shiver beneath the intensity of it. His eyebrow was split, dripping blood down his cheek.

“This fucking cunt just stuck his hand up my friend’s skirt,” he said, nodding towards a young woman who was cringing away from them both. 

“I don’t care if he tried to kiss the fucking queen,” Lucy said. “If you have something you’d like to sort out with fists, by all means take it outside. But keep it out of my pub.”

Before she knew what was happening, the blond had reached out and wrapped his hands around her neck. For a heartbeat she was frozen, brought back to a different day, a different set of fingers curled around her throat.

She slammed her fist into his nose.

He reared back, bellowing as his hands flew up to his face. Blood hit the polished wood, and he stumbled away from her, reaching for his coat. “You fucking bitch!”

The Blinder called out to him, “this isn’t fucking over, McCreedy!”

Lucy stepped away, desperate to shake off the claustrophobic feeling that surrounded her. She looked at the young woman ‘McCreedy’ had grabbed. “Are you okay?”

Lifting her timid gaze, she spoke with a strong French accent, “quite alright, thank you.”

“Are you sure?” Lucy asked, switching to French, “I’ll get you a drink for your nerves, on the house.”

The girl’s face softened, relief blooming across her features. “ _Merci beaucoup_.”

Turning back to the Blinder, she tugged on his wrist, picking up his half-glass of whiskey. “Come with me, you idiot.”

He followed her obediently to the bar, and she pretended not to notice Tommy making his own way over. She tugged the handkerchief out of the Blinder’s pocket, dumping his whiskey on it. “Stay still,” she instructed, reaching up to clean out the cut on his eyebrow. 

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said dryly. “The name’s Gideon, by the way.”

“Lucienne,” she murmured, focused on the split. “But English folk call me Lucy.”

“We’ve heard of you,” he said, trying his best to gesture back to his table without moving. “Arthur Shelby’s been telling everyone who’ll listen about the pretty new face he’s hired.”

She hummed noncommittally, trying to ignore the burning feeling of Tommy’s gaze on her neck. The skin there still throbbed, and she redoubled her focus on Gideon’s cut. Snapping open the first-aid kit she had made up, she used a clean pair of scissors to cut a butterfly bandage. She lined up the layers of skin with careful precision, sticking the bandage solidly in the middle of the wound.

“There,” she murmured, “shouldn’t even scar.”

He grinned, “much obliged. Now, I’ve heard you’re a singer. How true is that?”

“Depends on the day,” she said, turning to her first-aid supplies to avoid eye-contact.

“We’re musicians, my friends and I,” he said, grabbing her hand. She stiffened at the sudden contact, but he didn’t seem to notice. “You should perform with us, we come in here with our instruments sometimes.”

Sighing, she turned to look at him. His eyes were bright, face like a kid on Christmas day. She offered him a small smile. “We’ll see.”

 

* * *

 

 “Let me walk you home.” 

Tommy’s voice floated across the empty bar. The cleaning was finished for the night, and Lucy was about ready to lock up. 

She tossed the idea around in her head. Did she want to prolong her time in Tommy’s presence? Undeniably. Despite herself, every moment where they were in the same room felt important and precious. She couldn’t go longer than a few minutes without flicking her gaze over to him.

But this was a different time; a different place. Whatever had been between them in France had disappeared, and there was no use trying to fool themselves into thinking otherwise.

“It’s fine,” she assured him, shrugging on her coat.

His eyes caught on the bright blue of it. She watched him swallow, eyes flicking over her with a look she couldn’t quite place. “After this evening? Please, for my own peace of mind.”

“Okay,” she murmured, something wondrous and strange unfurling in her gut as he offered her his arm.

The walk was quiet. She supposed neither of them knew what to say. It was like one of Alice’s terrible romance novels come to life in the most terrible way. Their steps were aligned, every thump of their feet beating in perfect time with one another. She wanted to bottle the sound for later and write a song. 

A cry of pain tore through the night buzz, shaking her from her thoughts. They stopped dead, and Lucy cast her gaze up at Tommy. He was already reaching for the gun at his waist, shifting to curl himself closer to her. Another loud cry echoed from the alley they had just passed, followed by a whimper of pain.

Without thinking, she peeled herself out of Tommy’s arms and sprinted towards the shadows. Someone was hurt. Her mind raced, fingers already reaching for the first-aid kit in her bag. She heard Tommy curse behind her; the sound of his feet following hers.

A girl leaned against the alley wall, head tipped back in pain. She clutched her abdomen. Blood stained the gray concrete. 

Lucy approached slowly, speaking soft, “what’s happened?”

The girl turned, and Lucy saw that she wasn’t bleeding from anywhere on her torso. She was young, maybe sixteen. “I got pregnant,” the girl whimpered, eyes wide and wild with pain. 

“And then what?” Lucy coaxed, crossing the alley to come to her side.

“My man went and left me. I had to go and get the baby handled.” 

“ _Tabarnak_ ,” Lucy cursed. She turned to Tommy, who had his gun pulled out and a strange look on his face. “She’s dying. I need to help her.”

“You can bring her to Watery Lane,” he said. “It’s closer than the Garrison at this point.”

She nodded, turning back to the girl. “Can you walk? I can help you, but I need to get you somewhere safe and clean first.”

The girl nodded, and as Tommy rushed them along, Lucy asked for her name.

“Angeline.”

“Very French,” Lucy mused.

“My mum read it in a book once. It means ‘angel’. Guess I’m not an angel anymore though, am I?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Thou shalt not kill. One of the imp —” Angeline cut herself off with a cry of pain, and Lucy shifted to take more of her weight. By the time they reached the front door of Watery Lane, she was practically dragging her across the sidewalk. 

Tommy nearly flung open the door, sidestepping out of the way to allow Lucy some room. She placed Angeline on the floor with little grace, already scrambling for her bag. She heard a cacaphony of voices from a nearby room, but her entire world had narrowed to what was in front of her.

She worked methodically, cleaning her hands with Dakin solution and snapping on a pair of gloves. “Angeline, what did the abortionist use?”

“A knitting needle.” 

Lifting up Angeline’s skirts, Lucy gently removed her bloody undergarments. “ _Jésus et tous ses saints_.” It was likely an internal bleed; something she was not authorized to — or capable of — fixing.

Swishing black fabric entered her line of sight, and Lucy looked up to see an imposing older woman standing above her. “Who are you?” 

Lucy took off her hat, laying it to the side.“Miss Lucienne Frasier. A pleasure. Do you have any red raspberry leaf tea, perchance?”

The woman blinked at her. “You’d like some tea?"

“Not for me. For Angeline. It’ll slow her bleeding, hopefully.”

“Right,” the woman said, nodding and turning on heel.

Lucy refocused. Angeline was crying, body shaking against the hardwood. Shushing her, Lucy rubbed gentle circles on the back of her hand. “It’ll be alright, _ma chouette_. I need to know, how far along were you?”

“Six weeks, I reckon,” Angeline choked out. “I wanted to keep it, at first. Had names picked out and everything.”

Lucy kept talking even as her mind raced, “what were the names?”

She was bleeding somewhere Lucy couldn’t stitch without cutting her open. She needed to clean the wound and stop the bleeding. Angeline hadn’t been far along enough to need anything removed. Any embryo or the bare beginnings of a fetus would have been swept out before Lucy had stumbled upon her.

“If it was a girl, I would’ve named her Elizabeth Jane, after my mum and my aunt. She could’ve been Eliza, for short. If it was a boy, it would’ve been James Henry, after my brothers. They died in the War, over in France.”

“Those are beautiful names,” Lucy murmured, racking her brain. She needed to stop the bleeding, but not by closing the wound. The next best thing would be pressure, she supposed, but how could she apply pressure to an internal wound? 

“You’re a nurse, are ye?” Angelina asked, “were you in France?”

An idea struck Lucy. Slapping on a pair of gloves, she tore open her bag for her roll of bandages, beginning to wrap it into a ball. She answered Angeline’s question absentmindedly, “I was.”

“Was it horrible? The dying and all?” 

“A moment,” Lucy said, pouring Dakin solution on a smaller wad of cotton gauze. “I”m going to use this to clean the wound. It will feel very, very strange, but you have to trust me. Keep talking to me, alright?”

For a brief moment, Lucy came back to where she was. Tommy was on the other side of the room, standing with the older woman from before. They were next to one another, but both staring at her. She was still in her coat and shoes, kneeled before a stranger’s gentials on the floor of a near-stranger’s entryway.

“Right,” she said, turning back to Angeline. “France was horrible, I suppose, but not in the way you’re imagining. You get used to everything eventually.” She tied her soaked gauze to a thin metal rod she’d typically use to set a broken bone. Inserting it as smoothly and quickly as possible, she focused on cleaning where her approximation of the wound was.

“The first few times a man dies underneath your hands, it’s awful. There’s a moment, you know, where you can feel it. It’s like when the string of a kite snaps. There’s so much movement, and energy, and then suddenly there’s nothing; you’re left holding a bit of loose thread. And you want to snatch at the kite — get it back, somehow — but it’s already so far away. But the first time I had a patient die on me, and I felt nothing? Nothing worse. I felt like a monster. _That’s_ what was horrible about France. It did something to people; took away their humanity. We were packs of beasts hurling lead at each other and crawling back a few kilometres to lick at our wounds.”

The rod came out soaked in blood, but it sizzled against the Dakin solution. This was working.

“What was the worst thing you ever saw?” Angeline asked. 

Balling up more clean gauze, Lucy had to stop and think about that one. “I once held a toddler as he died,” she whispered, her voice nearly echoing in the dead-silent room. She kept cleaning the wound. There was resistance at the cervix, but whatever the abortionist had done to enlarge it originally was still holding true. Voice shaky, Lucy kept going with her story.

“He was a civilian casualty. Covered in massive burns. The skin was peeling off of him, almost down to the bone. I couldn’t do anything but ease the pain.” She tried to keep her movements smooth and slow, her fingers flexing jerkily. “He was so tiny. Malnourished, probably. I took him out of the tents, away from the noise and stink. And I held a globe of ether to his face, and sang until he died.”

The older woman spoke from behind her, “what did you sing to him?”

Lucy turned to peer over her shoulder, the woman standing there with a pot of tea and tin mug. “An old Jacobite song,” she answered. “Something my grandmother would sing as a lullaby. I suppose to me, it’s a promise.”

“Of what?” the woman asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Protection. The song was written about Bonny Prince Charlie. For me, it means ‘I will keep you safe, even at my own peril.’”

Angeline closed her eyes. “Will you sing it?”

Lucy stiffened. She had sung the same song for Tommy. He would remember that. What would he think of it? How could she explain the strange sense of connection she had felt for him since the beginning?

But Angeline looked so small. So tired. And Tommy wasn’t dumb. She had already tipped her hand by describing the song. Might as well thoroughly fuck herself over. So as she tended to Angeline, she began to sing:

 

_Speed, bonny boat_

_Like a bird on the wing._

_’Onward’, the sailors cry._

_Carry the lad, that’s born to be king_

_Over the sea to Skye._

 

_Loud the winds howl,_

_Loud the waves roar,_

_Thunderclaps rend the air._

_Baffled, our foes stand by the shore;_

_Follow, they will not dare._

 

Tommy had drawn in a sharp breath behind her, but she just kept working. The cotton was coming back less and less red.

 

_Speed, bonny boat_

_Like a bird on the wing._

_‘Onward’, the sailors cry._

_Carry the lad, that’s born to be king_

_Over the sea to Skye._

 

_Though the waves leap,_

_Soft shall ye sleep;_

_Ocean’s a royal bed._

_Rocked in the deep, Flora will keep_

_Watch by your weary head._

 

She gestured for the older woman to approach, still singing. Angeline looked as though she might fall asleep, and though she hated to disturb her, she needed to drink her tea. Flipping around, she lifted Angeline’s head into her lap, lowering the mug to her lips.

 

_Speed, bonny boat_

_Like a bird on the wing._

_‘Onward’, the sailors cry._

_Carry the lad, that’s born to be king_

_Over the sea to Skye._

 

_Many’s the lad, fought on that day_

_Well the Claymore could wield._

_When the night came, silently lay_

_Death, on Culloden’s field._

 

Angeline drained the cup, and Lucy gently shifted out from beneath her head. Balling up yet more gauze, she tied it with medical string, measuring it against her fist. Hopefully it was small enough to fit, but large enough to actually apply pressure. Cutting the song off for a moment, she forewarned Angeline, “this is going to be very, very painful.” 

Angling the rod, she wished for the umpteenth time that she had proper equipment. With careful hands, she began to stuff Angeline with the gauze.

 

_Speed, bonny boat_

_Like a bird on the wing._

_‘Onward’, the sailors cry._

_Carry the lad, that’s born to be king_

_Over the sea to Skye._

 

_Burnt are our homes;_

_Exile and death._

_Scatter the loyal men._

_Yet ‘ere the sword, cool in its sheath,_

_Charlie will come again._

 

_Speed, bonny boat_

_Like a bird on the wing._

_‘Onward’, the sailors cry._

_Carry the lad, that’s born to be king_

_Over the sea to Skye._

_Over the sea to Skye._

 

Through it all, Angeline cried and bit her palm. Lucy desperately wanted to cry too. Her chest was too tight, her head light. Instead, she kept at it, reaching up to hold Angeline’s free hand. By the time the song was over, the gauze had gone where it needed to. The string still hung out, leaving the ability to remove and replace it.

“Shhh, _mon gentil ange_ ,” Lucy murmured, drawing Angeline back into her lap. “It’s over now. You did such a good job.”

Crying into her legs, Angeline choked out a response, “do you think I’ll go to Hell?”

“What, for getting an abortion?”

Angeline nodded, her small frame shaking.

“I don’t know if you’ll go to Hell or not. Though — and I’m not much for church anymore, but —if I remember correctly, that’s what repenting’s for? God knows that we are but weak mortals, prone to sin, and all that. And I have to say, if you've decided you're going to Hell, _ma chérie_ , it should be over something a little more exciting than making sure your eventual child doesn't grow up in poverty, shame, and suffering.”

After a beat of silence, the older woman spoke up, “do you have anyone you can call for, sweetheart? Someone should stay with you.”

“Me mum. She lives on the other side of the cut.”

“Right,” the woman said. “I’ll take her address, and I’ll get one of the boys to take you there in the car. Miss Frasier, would you like to take a seat? Tommy will you get you something to drink, I’m sure you’re in need of it.”

Stripping off her gloves, Lucy reached for her notebook. “I’ll take your address too, _mon ange_. I’ll come visit you in the morning and redo your gauze. You should stay in bed until I give you the clear to move about.”

Copying down the street and number of her apartment, Lucy supposed she would need Alice’s help to find it. She made to stand, but found that her legs gave out beneath her. She nearly fell, a strong arm wrapping around her waist to steady her.

Looking up, she saw Tommy standing there with a glass of whiskey. “Careful,” he murmured, leading her to a small couch.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the glass and knocking it back greedily. The burn centred her, brought her back to where she was. Warmth bloomed in her chest, though whether it was procured by the alcohol or the way Tommy was looking at her was up for debate.

He leaned towards her, and despite herself she rested her head on his shoulder. He was solid beneath her, unwavering. It brought her an indescribable comfort. His voice was soft, “you just can’t help yourself when you see someone in need, can you?”

“You should be grateful for it,” she said, “it’s what kept you alive in France.”

“And here I thought I was just that charming,” he said, smiling into her hair.

She snorted, “you wish.”

“You mean you weren’t overcome with the desire to save me after glancing at my beautiful, sleeping face?”

“Oh, of course.”

Someone cleared their throat, and they tore themselves away from each other to see that same older woman. “I thought I’d introduce myself,” she said dryly, “my name is Elizabeth Gray, but you may call me Polly. Lucienne, is it?”

“Please, call me Lucy.”

“Right. So, how exactly did you come into the acquaintance of my nephew?”

Suddenly, Lucy realized that this was the ‘Aunt Pol’ she’d heard so much of. “I met him in France,” she said softly, scrambled brain desperately trying to gauge how she should be acting in order to win the woman’s approval. “I was a nurse. He was dying. I fought to be allowed to try and save his life. He stayed with me for a time, in recovery.”

Polly seemed to weigh this, dark eyes glinting in the low light. “So we owe you a debt.”

“No,” Lucy said, shaking her head. “It was my job, and my pleasure. I’m in Arthur’s employ now, too, so consider any perceived debt repaid.”

“Then you have my gratitude,” Polly said. “Feel free to stay here for the night, we’ll send a message along to your home.”

Lucy accepted the offer, giving Polly Alice’s address. She was swept upstairs, given an old dressing gown, and settled into a guest room. Lying in the dark, she stared up at the ceiling for what felt like hours. Her mind raced, with thoughts of Angeline, thoughts of France, thoughts of Tommy.

Like the act of thinking his name somehow summoned him, she heard a gentle knock on the door and a slow creak as the man himself slipped into her room. “Are you alright?”

Sitting up, she gathered the blankets around her bare shoulders. “I suppose so.”

“I couldn’t be sure, and I knew you wouldn’t say anything in front of Aunt Pol,” he said, settling on the foot of the bed.

“She was so young,” Lucy murmured, “and she was bleeding so much, and it’s not like I could just stitch it up, you know? God, I was so terrified. She came so, so close to dying.” She laughed bitterly, “there’s still no guaranteeing anything. Maybe I just prolonged her agony.”

Something was making a pattering sound, and she realized that she was crying, tears falling onto the quilt. Tommy hovered for a moment, tension seemingly corded into his every muscle. Then he came forward, wrapping his arms around her.

She felt something snap in her chest, the tears coming in sharp bursts. Burrowing her head into the crook of his neck, she finally let herself sob the way she had wanted to for hours. He held her quietly, thumb tracing soft circles into her shoulder until her crying lessened. “What do you need from me?”

“Just this,” she managed, curling closer. He smelled like leather and fresh cigarettes, and all she wanted was to stay there forever. 

“Alright,” he murmured, “however long you’d like.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
